


Revelations

by sanguisuga



Series: Aberrant Fragments [7]
Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: But even the best get hurt, Doctor John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Johncroft, Johnstrade, Johnstradecroft, M/M, Multi, No villain will be safe, Open Relationships, Past Mollcroft, Patient Mycroft Holmes, Watch out for little bro, and his various lovers, established relationships - Freeform, he's a bamf, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-06 09:02:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4215762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguisuga/pseuds/sanguisuga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is compromised, first in his professional life, and then in the personal. Of course his partners view it as something of a revelation...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the bingo prompt 'hospital', although it was actually prompted a few weeks back, so I'm a bit late, but what the heck, right?
> 
> At least one more chapter to follow, perhaps more depending on the muse and the direction this goes...
> 
> Would love to know what people think of the new foray!

John cursed quietly as he looked at the wall clock opposite his desk. The clinic had been closed for nearly two hours, but he had been behind on his paperwork all day long, and had told Sarah that he’d stick around until it was all complete. Truthfully, that task had been finished over an hour ago, but the silence that surrounded him now was surprisingly conducive to gathering his thoughts, and he had started scribbling out notes for his blog before quickly losing track of the time. If only he had thought to bring his laptop with him. Hm, maybe he should look into getting one of those tablet thingys... Although - he found his single finger method of typing vexing enough on a regular keyboard, so he knew that using one of those touchscreens would probably end up driving him quite mad.

He chuckled at himself and set down another brief paragraph pertaining to the case that they had closed a couple of nights previous. It had come to a startling denouement in a crowded theatre as Sherlock had managed to wrangle his way backstage, crying out, “Hemp, not nylon!” and shoving the female lead out of the path of the sandbag that had been aimed at her head. Sadly, there was no chance of a merry chase, as the perpetrator was dangling rather precariously from the rigging, and had nowhere to go but down. The poor thing had gotten a bit frustrated with the pace of her original plan, which was to place an improvised explosive charge on the sandbag in question, (really, just a very little one), and set it off when the prima donna had hit her mark.

As impatient as the understudy had been to quite literally crush her competition, however, she had also been rather less clever and hadn’t been able to implement said plan. And so she had to resort to Plan B, which was how she came to be dangling upside down from one ankle as her face went alarmingly scarlet. Once safely brought down, however, she had been rather clever and undeniably inventive in the curses that she had flung in Sherlock’s direction. John chuckled again as he took note of the one that he had liked best, when she had shouted at the consulting detective that he was nothing less than a ‘shitstain on the otherwise lily-white pants of Der Führer’s second cousin’. Sherlock had stood blinking incomprehensibly for a good three minutes as everyone gathered snickered rather merrily despite their best efforts to remain professional. Apparently, she had kept her tirade going throughout the entirety of her escorted ride, as Lestrade had gleefully texted John with just about every word that came spilling from her lips. Oh yes, this was going to be an extremely popular blog post indeed...

John startled slightly as he heard what sounded like a tap on the window directly behind him. He froze out of sheer instinct, even though he deliberately always kept the blinds drawn. It gave him the illusion of a wall at his back, which was something that he often needed in order to get through the day. It came again, this time in a pattern that was instantly recognisable - three short taps, three long, three short again. S.O.S. Seemingly without thinking, he spun around in his chair and peeked between the slats on the blinds.

The face that was looking back at him was drawn and pale, almost ghostly. The cool grey eyes were cloudy and distant, the hawkish features pinched in an obvious expression of pain. As he stared in astonishment, John winced slightly as Mycroft staggered and fell against the window rather heavily. In another moment, he was out of his chair and unlocking the back door, dragging the nearly unconscious figure into the nearest exam room. Mycroft gasped as he was laid out on the table, clutching at a bloody wound on his left side. His right hand was clenched tight around what looked like his umbrella handle, but the brolly itself was conspicuously absent. Instead there was what looked like a rather substantial blade protruding from the rattan shaft, clearly broken off about seven inches down.

John felt a swift twist of emotion in his gut, an odd combination of anger and pride. The elder Holmes had obviously been attacked, but had also clearly put up one hell of a fight. He clenched his jaw as he imagined some faceless thug lying in an alleyway with the rest of that blade sticking out of him, and found himself nodding curtly. It was no less than the bastard deserved, he was sure of it. And Heaven help anyone else that might have been left behind once Sherlock found out about this, of course. John shook himself out of any plans of revenge for the time being, silently coaxing Mycroft’s hand open so he could set the damaged weapon aside.

Mycroft moaned, shifting about restlessly as he clutched at his side, his muddied shoes scraping over the table. John hissed as he picked up the safety scissors and started hacking away at his waistcoat and shirt, delicately peeling away the layers of clothing to expose the wound. “Fuck.” He swiftly pressed clean gauze to it as blood pulsed out lazily, making Mycroft moan again. “Myc, you need to be at A&E for this. I can’t… This is…”

Mycroft shook his head weakly even as he thrashed against John’s steady pressure. “C-can’t. Compromised. Don’t know… They’ll look f-for me th-there…”

“Shit. Whoever it is surely knows that we’re connected. What makes you think they won’t come looking here?”

“D-don’t know. But...trust - you. Don’t trust h-hospital…”

His head lolled again as John cursed, still putting pressure on the wound. “Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Okay. I still don’t know - I need help. I’m going to call Sherlock.”

Mycroft’s eyes suddenly focused on his with a laser-like intensity, as they did whenever they managed to steal some time to themselves. “You can do this, John. It’s combat medicine, that’s all. Battlefield.” He blinked slowly. “Sherlock - yes. Gregory too. Trust no-one else.”

John bit his lip as he dithered, wanting to crack back at him with all of the anecdotes about doctors working on loved ones, but he choked it back as Mycroft went limp again. “I need you to stay awake, Myc. Can you do that? Just until I get a better idea of what’s going on with your guts.” _Fuck._ John looked down at his bloodied hands and swiftly taped some more gauze over the wound, as tightly as he could. Then he stripped down to his vest to make working on him easier and dialled the one number that would connect to both Greg and Sherlock’s phones, muttering only, “Code red, clinic,” before hanging up.

He immediately turned his own phone off as a preventative measure, and patted down Mycroft’s pockets to feel around for his. John jumped slightly as his patient grunted and shook his head. “T-tossed it. No trackers. That I k-know of…”

“Alright, love. Good. That’s good.” He prepped himself as well as he was able with antibacterial gel rubbed liberally on his hands and forearms, and gloved up as he laid out more supplies. At least the overhead lamp in this room functioned properly… After setting up, John coaxed Mycroft into turning onto his right side, so he could have a clear view of the wound. Taking in a deep breath, he removed the soiled bandages and let out his air with a quiet sigh of relief when it only oozed a tiny bit more blood.

“Deep breath, Myc. I need to poke around a little. I’d offer to put you out, but I know you will refuse because you are a stubborn little bastard.” John tilted his head with a jerk of his chin, steeling his own resolve. He’d most likely pass out from the pain anyway, although you never could tell with these damned Holmes brothers. Mycroft grunted his acknowledgement, taking in as deep a breath as he could manage against the influx of pain. John took note that it seemed to be only pain that he was struggling against, as the wound wasn’t sucking in air, nor was the blood the deep red, almost black hue that indicated that an organ had been struck.

No, it appeared that it had been a slice and nothing else, rather nasty-looking but fairly benign in the grand scheme of things. He spread the edges of the laceration to judge the depth, but he already knew that stitches were going to be necessary, both in the underlying muscle as well as the skin. Not that he felt comfortable doing that here, not with God only knew what floating around the room. He’d much prefer to be in a sterile environment, for fuck’s sake. Infections could be nasty, and he wanted to avoid causing his lover any additional pain if he could.

 _“Christ!”_ John jumped slightly, as he’d been so deep in his own thoughts that Lestrade’s arrival hadn’t even registered with him. Way to go, Captain Watson. The man you love gets hurt, and you go all wishy-washy civilian on him. He shook his head and straightened his shoulders, tossing a glare at Greg as he came to stand next to him. He paused as he took in the expression on his face, something more than professional interest, something stricken and lost.

John swallowed uneasily as Lestrade’s broad fingers reached out to run through Mycroft’s hair, as he bent to press a kiss to his temple. Mycroft mumbled something incoherent and Greg’s eyes fluttered closed for just a moment before he straightened and turned to John. They both froze as their eyes met, a sudden understanding flowing between them. Greg broke the unintentional standoff first with a crooked grin and a little tip of his head, and John found himself smirking back. Mycroft had never been shy about admitting that he needed more than one partner in his life, but he had been rather adamant about keeping each relationship quite separate, despite repeated requests for introductions from both of them. And now they knew why, of course.

John sighed as he tried to wipe away some of the dried blood. “The great git.”

Greg nudged him gently with his elbow as he peered down at the damage with a critical if somewhat devastated gaze. “Well, we know now, and we can give him hell about it later. And finally all have dinner together, hallelujah. So.”

“Yes, John. What is your diagnosis?”

Both men jumped at the rich baritone that came rolling out from behind them, Sherlock looming up like some kind of vengeful spirit to hover over John’s other side. He fought the urge to grab at them both with his bloody hands and knock their heads together as they crowded around him. “Bad laceration, sliced through some of the muscle, but didn’t seem to strike bone. Didn’t go deep enough to get any organs, so that’s a bit of a blessing. He needs stitches, obviously. Antibiotics and plasma. I can’t do all that here, but he’s insisting on no hospital.” John glanced at Lestrade before turning to Sherlock. “He said he was compromised. Came in here with that broken blade and nothing more. Said he tossed his phone. I couldn’t get much more out of him.”

“Hm.” Sherlock’s quicksilver eyes darted over the remains of Mycroft’s faithful umbrella and his brother’s body with equal amounts of impassive scrutiny. His lips were turned down slightly, but there was no other indication of possible distress at seeing his brother laid out in front of him like a corpse. He snatched up John’s phone from where he had left it, silently holding out a hand to Lestrade until he sighed deeply and handed his own over. Both went into a pocket of his Belstaff and then he went to his brother, bending over his head and whispering in his ear. John kept his eyes on his task, blotting at and clearing away the excess blood, taping yet another bundle of gauze to it and holding it down firmly.

Greg pressed a little closer to his side as the brothers held their whispered conference, whether to give them a bit of space or whether to offer support, John couldn’t be sure. He glanced up at his face, but he was still looking down at their apparently mutual lover with clear anguish in his eyes. Oh, what the hell… John took in a deep breath and abruptly leant up against the man at his side, resting his head on his upper arm. Greg stiffened only temporarily, but then his arm came up to wrap around John’s waist as though it had always belonged there, pulling him in tight.

John relaxed into him, taking immediate comfort from the solidity of his body, his heat and scent. It wasn’t the first time that he had become aware of how wonderful the man smelled, but it was the first time he really allowed himself to luxuriate in it. No, the first time had been after one of the preposterous ‘drug raids’ at 221B. Lestrade had been sprawled out in Sherlock’s armchair, lording over the procedures with a malicious twinkle of glee in his dark brown eyes. Once he had gotten the information he was seeking out of the consulting detective, he had swept his team out and had breezed past John on his way out the door himself. John recalled with embarrassing clarity how he had literally lifted his nose in the air and sniffed after Lestrade like some sort of animal in rut.

Sherlock had caught him at it, of course, and had chuckled at him good-naturedly. “He’s taken, I’m afraid. And quite loyal.” John had tried to pass it off as nothing more consequential than trying to hold back a sneeze or something as equally ridiculous, which had made his flatmate giggle even harder. There had been a couple more incidents during which John had found himself gravitating toward the awfully enticing form of the Detective Inspector, but soon after that, the British Government had suddenly start pursuing him with a relentless single-mindedness that might have been alarming if he hadn’t already become accustomed to the little eccentricities of the Holmes mindset. Instead he had found it flattering and even a bit intoxicating, for when Mycroft had truly set his sights on him, he had made it quite clear that he would eagerly move heaven and earth to make him happy.

And he had been, even knowing that he wasn’t his paramour’s one and only love. He had never made him feel less-than, even while scheduling their assignations down to the quarter-hour. John suspected that he gave him an extra window of fifteen minutes on either side of his block of time just because he knew that he couldn’t resist pulling him in for just one more kiss that would devolve into several, or one more quick embrace that would stretch into a glorious snuggle together. Mycroft flourished with structure, with a rigid adherence to his timetable. He was the yin to his little brother’s yang, the order to his chaos, calm restraint versus wild exuberance.

John let out an almost silent sigh as he melted a bit more into Lestrade’s comforting presence, wincing slightly as Mycroft thrashed uneasily under his hand. Greg looked down at him with a bit of a warm glow about his cheeks before turning his attention back to where Sherlock was still bent over his brother’s head, his dark curls mingling with the vibrant auburn of Mycroft’s hair. John blinked down at them, wishing it could be as peaceful as this between them when somebody’s life wasn’t obviously on the line.

Sherlock abruptly looked up and caught sight of them standing pressed firmly into each other and allowed himself a brief smirk. John tutted quietly as he rolled his eyes. “You knew.”

“Of course, John, do keep up.” He frowned mightily as John opened his mouth, holding up an imperious hand for silence. “No time to go into details, although I will say that it is Mycroft’s life and if he wished for his association with the both of you to remain isolated, then that was his choice and I respect that. I didn’t always agree with him, but then, I rarely do. Now.” His quicksilver eyes suddenly took on a predatory gleam, and this time it was John that was standing as support as Greg shrank away from the consulting detective slightly. “I have business to attend to.”

Lestrade shook himself and took a step away from John as he let go of the smaller man. “I’ll come with.”

“No, Detective Inspector. It’s better that you aren’t involved with what I am going to do, as it will no doubt be quite illegal and somewhat shocking to your delicate sensibilities.”

“I know what you’re capable of, Sunshine.” Lestrade growled low as he cupped the back of Mycroft’s head. “And let me tell you that it in no way compares to what I would do if I got my hands on the scum that dared to touch him in this manner.”

Sherlock smirked again, but with a touch of pride and clear approval this time. “No need on that score, as the villain is quite dead. Mycroft is sure of that at the very least. His cronies, however…”

“Right. So let’s go.”

“Again, I must say no. Not only are you emotionally compromised, John obviously has his hands full, and he will need you here to help keep Mycroft safe while he is in this weakened state. And you no doubt have things that you wish to discuss.”

John shook his head. “There’s only so much I can do here, Sherlock. I need supplies, remember? I can improvise on the drugs, but I don’t have the adequate tools to get his muscles stitched back properly. I don’t have the capability to sterilise things to my satisfaction. I need to get him to hospital!”

Sherlock bit his lip as he looked down at his brother’s pale face once more, turning on his heels with a snap of his ridiculous coat. “I’ll send someone trustworthy with instructions and meet you when my task is done.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and John get a little better acquainted over Mycroft's unconscious body...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoooo... Hello, my lovelies! Please read, please comment, all that jazz, I adore you all!
> 
> *mwah!*

Before anyone else could voice any additional objections, Sherlock swept out of the room and out the back door, slamming it behind him quite definitively. John felt a swift tremor of fear shimmy down his spine as he realised that it had been unlocked all this time. He turned a stern look on Lestrade, who was glaring at nothing in particular with his hands on his hips. “Make sure this place is locked down and take a peek outside to see if you can catch anyone lurking.”

Greg’s eyebrows rose up his forehead, but he didn’t object either to John’s commands or his curt tone of voice, recognising almost instantly that he had most likely slipped into Captain Watson mode due to the tense situation at hand. After all, he had been witness to it many times before, when John was attempting to curtail Sherlock from doing something extremely rash, and he succeeded more often than not simply due to that same implacable tone. Greg nodded curtly and slipped from the room almost soundlessly as he moved to obey. John took a moment to breathe and cautiously released the pressure on Mycroft’s wound, intently watching the bundle of gauze for any tell-tale traces of red seeping through.

Seeing nothing immediately alarming, he swiftly took up his bundle of keys and unlocked the drugs cupboard, rummaging about for some painkillers and an initial dose of antibiotics. Mycroft would most likely require a cycle of them anyway, so might as well get started now. Greg came back in as John was putting on a fresh pair of gloves, one hypodermic ready to go. 

John glanced up at him and nodded at the head of the table. “Hold him down and soothe him, if you can. I’m going to inject this close to the wound site, and I’m sure he won’t appreciate it all that much.”

Greg’s lips twisted in a mixed expression of horror and amusement before taking hold of Mycroft’s left arm and bending it down over his chest. He held him in place as he leant down to his ear, much as Sherlock had only moments before, although John was sure that the words being mumbled into his ear were much different this time. Mycroft thrashed again as John injected the antibiotics under his skin with swift precision, wincing as he let out a low cry of pain. John withdrew the needle and nearly threw the bloody thing across the room as he turned away, that pitiful sound echoing in his ears and making his chest constrict uncomfortably. He tried to regulate his breathing but quickly found that it was next to impossible as his vision narrowed abruptly. The next thing he knew he was on his knees in the middle of the exam room, hunched over and shaking uncontrollably.

He didn’t hear Greg’s words at first, just a vaguely rhythmic pressure against his eardrums as something filtered in as if through thick cotton wadding. He did become aware of his body being held close to his, though, of his heat and and again, his scent, bringing him back from the brink of a panic attack as he held him close and rocked their bodies together gently.

“Breathe, lad. That’s it - oh, you’re doing so well, John. In and out, just like that. Like the tide, yeah? Slow and smooth, shh… Listen to the blood in your ears, let it guide you, just like the ocean rolling in and out again, like the tide.”

John slowly blinked himself back to awareness, feeling appalled with himself at allowing his control to slip, at letting Mycroft down when he needed him the most. Greg seemed to sense that he was coming back into himself and loosened his grip, but John abruptly shook his head and reached up to keep his arms around him. Greg hummed quietly and hesitantly nosed at the hair at the back of his head, at a spot behind his left ear, tickling at his skin with short sharp huffs of breath.

John tilted his head slightly and let his eyes close as he let out a soft sigh and a quiet, “Yes.” Greg hummed again as he shifted a bit closer, as he once again tightened his embrace and John shivered with absolute delight as he felt the tentative but firm press of lips against his neck. His chin hit his chest almost of its own volition as he exposed himself to Greg’s gentle explorations, the scratchiness of his stubble against the sensitive skin almost too much for John to bear.

It was meant to be comforting, John knew that - an anchor to help ground him in his body, to keep him present in the moment. But there was promise there, too. Anticipation and need tempered with caution and restraint, all of it simply quivering in the solid body at his back. He let out an almost inaudible groan as Greg shifted behind him, pressing his forehead in between his shoulder blades. John heard his voice clearly in his head even as his breath washed down his spine through the thin cotton of his vest. _‘Soon,’_ he was saying without speaking. _‘Yes, soon, but not now.’_

What he actually said was, “Mycroft,” and those two syllables gave John the impetus he needed to raise himself up on shaky knees, to grasp Greg’s hand as he pulled him to his feet. He took a moment to simply look up at him, at the brief twinkle in his deep dark eyes before they shifted toward the table, toward the man still lying prone atop it. John bit his lip as the high brow wrinkled with worry and fear.

“He’ll be fine.” Greg turned back with a frown firmly affixed to his face but nodded curtly. “Really. I mean, once I get him where I can stitch up that little scratch of his, of course. But he’s in no immediate danger, as the blood seems to have stopped for the moment. His colour isn’t great, but there’s no indication that he’s lost more than a couple of pints, which is fairly manageable. In the meantime, I can at least do something to ease his discomfort.” John nodded toward the second hypodermic that was waiting for him. “Won’t knock him out, because I know he hates that, but it will make him a bit loopy. Perfect time for getting some answers out of him, don’t you think?”

Greg’s face suddenly broke out into a broad grin. “Why, how diabolical of you, Doctor Watson! Let’s just put that to the test, shall we?”

They both knew that any attempt at coercion would most likely fail, even with the addition of a little chemical assistance. Both of them understood the line of work that Mycroft was embroiled in, even if he wasn’t free to offer details, and both of them also knew that he would have been trained against this very eventuality. But they also recognised that it might not hurt to try to infuse their current situation with just a bit of levity, either. After all, if you couldn’t laugh, you could only cry, and that wouldn’t do anyone any bit of good.

And John had always wanted to play the part of the Bond villain… He smirked as he nodded toward the table. “First, we need to get the rest of those clothes off of his torso. I should make sure there isn’t any other significant damage.”

Greg nodded and went straight for the scissors himself, starting where John had left off. “I have always wanted to rip his clothes off, but he would never let me. This’ll probably be my only opportunity…”

John laughed quietly as he gently lifted Mycroft’s arm to aid him in his mission. “Yeah. He’s always so slow and methodical about it. He does it just to drive us crazy, you know. I’m sure he loves watching us squirm as he reveals that creamy skin of his bit by bit, taking his own sweet time about it.”

“Oh, I’m quite sure you’re right about - that…” Greg’s amused chuckle petered out as he peeled the rest of the shirt away, and John frowned as they both gently coaxed Mycroft into lying on his back. Greg looked at him with furious eyes as he balled up the ruined clothing in both fists, his teeth grinding together. “Do you think Sherlock will save one of them for us?”

John bit his lip against the lump in his chest. “I sincerely doubt it. If you’re feeling the need to tear something to shreds, you might as well finish the job on that ridiculously expensive shirt.” He felt his lungs beginning to constrict again as he took in the numerous small bruises, his eyes lingering on the rather large blue-purple contusion blooming on Mycroft’s right side. He’d obviously been kicked in the ribs, and more than once. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, just like Greg had coached him only moments before. In and out, as inexorable as the tide...

“Dammit.” John turned incredulous eyes on Greg as he cursed quietly, watching with more than a small amount of amusement as he tugged on the ruin of the shirt in his hands. “Money well spent, apparently. These seams aren’t giving at all.”

John suddenly found himself giggling madly, reaching out to support himself against the table. Greg looked at him with a bit of pride twinkling in his eyes, obviously cognizant that he had managed to pull him out of another burgeoning panic attack. Once he managed to get his breath back, he tilted his head in acknowledgement and gratitude. “That’s why they tell us not to work on loved ones, you know. Too emotionally compromised, more apt to make mistakes because we can’t stand to see them in pain. I would be a blubbering mass on the floor if it weren’t for you being here with me.”

“I don’t believe that at all. If I weren’t here, you wouldn’t allow yourself to fail. You don’t quit, John. I’ve seen you. You’re stubborn as fuck, and you just don’t quit.”

John blinked at him in disbelief. “I…”

“No, I don’t think you understand. When you allowed your guard to drop in front of me like that, it was like angels singing. I am so unbelievably _honoured_ that you felt safe enough with me to let me see you in that vulnerable state. That you trusted me enough to let me touch you and guide you back. I know how difficult that is for you, but here - it was almost instinctive.” Greg smiled brightly and let the mass of fabric float down to the floor. “I may have just fallen in love with you, John Watson.”

John blinked a bit more, his brain trying to catch up with Greg’s impassioned speech and failing quite miserably. Honestly, what could you say to something like that? _‘Oh God me too’,_ suddenly came to mind as well as _'Wh_ _oa, slow down’_ , or maybe even _‘Come here right now so I can kiss you utterly stupid’..._

What he did end up saying was, “You’re pretty direct, aren’t you, Detective Inspector?”

Greg shrugged with that same easy grin crinkling around his dark eyes. “I find it’s easier. I was never good at playing coy - people get hurt that way. I’m not going to demand that you respond to me now or ever, I just want you to know how I feel. What you choose to do with that information is entirely up to you.”

The stark honesty in his eyes made John go a little weak in the knees, and he spun back around to look down into Mycroft’s face, slack in sleep but still pinched about the eyes and brow with pain. Rather than responding at all, he simply went about his task of injecting the painkiller, watching that lovely face for long moments until the brow cleared slightly. He looked up as broad fingers started to work through the sweat-dampened strands, gently caressing until Mycroft stirred slightly.

“How long?”

Greg looked up in surprise. “You mean how long we’ve been together?” He smiled at John’s curt nod. “Three years as an official ‘thing’, but we’d been messing around for a couple of years before that. When I started working with Sherlock, in fact.” His smile went crooked. “It started with the kidnappings, of course.”

“Oh, of course. And then he started dragging you to impromptu meetings in your favourite restaurants, right? Along with the, ‘oh, since you’re here you might as well join me’ before telling you amusing stories of Sherlock as a child. Being all delightfully witty and surprisingly flirty until you just couldn’t stand it anymore and then he dropped you off at home after one of these dinner dates that wasn’t really a date but you didn’t want it to end so you damn near broke your own nose lunging at him for a desperate snog and then the next thing you knew you were in that sinfully luxurious bed of his doing things that you’d never ever imagined doing with the British Government, but oh - good God almighty…”

Greg giggled quietly. “Um, more or less, except I was much more suave in my advances. At least, there wasn’t any lunging or sprained body parts.” He dropped a cheeky wink. “That came later.”

John sighed. “Yeah, you’re a smooth bastard, alright. Know just what to say to a man to make him let down his defences...” He shook his head and smiled at Greg’s faint frown to show that it was just a joke. “Three years. I've only the one. So you’re his primary, then.”

The frown deepened as Greg stepped away and leant up against the wall. “I don’t think Myc thinks of it that way. It’s clear that we’re both important to him, maybe just in different ways.”

“You have anybody else?”

Greg shrugged. “A couple of folks that I can count on if I want a quick shag, but nothing serious. You?”

“Not even that. I’ve had a few - um - encounters, but it’s not like numbers were exchanged or anything.”

“Bet he loved hearing the stories, though…”

Greg grinned at him lasciviously, and John could only grin back. “That he did, yeah.”

John sighed again as the moment faded, looking down at Mycroft’s torso, at the multiple bruises, at the contusion shaped like a bootprint branded across his ribs. He bit his lip as he started to feel around it gently, nodding silently as the bones stayed steady under the pressure of his fingers. At one point Mycroft did suck in a harsh breath, his eyes flashing open suddenly.

_“John…ungh…”_

John lifted his hands to Mycroft’s face and cupped it gently. “I’m here, love. I’m here, and I’m trying to do what I can for you but I don’t know if I can do it, I keep flinching and hesitating and I’m turning into a right mess here…”

Mycroft blinked at him placidly and lifted his hand to clutch at his arm, his voice physically shaky but the tone firm with conviction. “I trust you, John. With everything in me. You can do this, you know you can…”

“It’s more than trust, isn’t it, love?” Mycroft nodded vaguely as Greg looked at John steadily. “It’s faith. And confidence in his abilities. Because you know better than anyone what skills he has and what he’s capable of.”

Mycroft’s lips turned down into an adorably puzzled grimace as Greg stepped around the table to stand at John’s side. “Gregory?”

John tutted quietly. “You don’t even remember telling me to call him, do you? Silly thing.”

The patient’s frown increased as Greg’s arm came up to drape over John’s shoulders, and the smaller man leant into him with a grin. “May have been - hm - mistake.”

Greg snorted. “No, it wasn’t, and you know it. You're hurt and scared and you wanted us both with you. I think that’s a sign that you knew, however subconsciously, that keeping us both in the dark had to end.”

“It was rather foolish, sweetheart. Why did you do it? We know each other fairly well, we’re mates! We knew that we weren’t the only ones in your life, what did you think was going to happen if you just told us who your other partner was?”

Mycroft opened his mouth a little uneasily, but then Greg turned to John with a little smirk. “Control, I bet. His pathological need for control…” There was a quiet intake of breath as their mutual lover prepared to speak, but Greg ignored it rather blithely. “And he’s a selfish tit. There’s that, too.” He waved his hand in the space between their bodies. “He didn’t want to share us with...us. It’s okay if it’s a fuckbuddy or some random that we’re never gonna see again, but you and me, John… There could be something more, something real there, don’t you think?”

John’s face warmed as he looked up into those beautiful dark eyes. They were twinkling with mirth, yes, but there was also something so stark and honest there that he could only nod before wrapping his arm around his waist and pulling him in closer. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes as Greg moved in and then - oh - oh yes, that certainly was real. His lips were so warm and so firm on his that John’s knees wobbled a bit, but he just tightened his hold and opened his mouth, although Greg didn’t probe any deeper than a simple swipe of his tongue along his bottom lip, keeping it relatively chaste for the moment.  

Greg hummed as he pulled away, casting a quick glance at Mycroft before looking back at John with clear desire in his eyes. “He thinks he knows us too well - he was afraid that we would fall in love with each other and leave him behind.”

John reached out to squeeze at Mycroft’s leg as the prone figure slowly closed his eyes and shook his head from side to side in unconscious denial. “Well, then he’s an idiot, isn’t he? Thinking that either of us would just up and leave him rather than decide to share something new and exciting _with_ him.”

Mycroft moaned in quiet despair. “I didn’t dare - the risk analysis showed that the both of you would be able to spend more time together and that your bond would surely grow stronger than the ones either of you hold with me. With your backgrounds and common interests, you have more to share than I could ever offer. My calculations proved that I would lose you both, and that was something I could not face, so I resolved to never let it happen. It was an easy decision, although I often had to barter with Sherlock to ensure that he didn’t let anything ‘accidentally’ slip.”

“Well, that finally explains the new chemical hood that mysteriously showed up down in 221C. The venting off the side of the building has practically destroyed all of the marigolds that Mrs. Hudson had planted last spring…”

Greg rested an easy hand on Mycroft’s forehead, brushing that one errant curl back fondly. “Little shit always knows just how to get what he wants out of you, doesn’t he?”

Mycroft blushed faintly, and John watched with concern as the colour faded from his cheeks far too quickly. “Speaking of, where’s his bloody backup? Should have been here ages ago.”

Greg glanced at his watch, but then almost as if on cue, there was a tentative knock at the back door. Mycroft grimaced again, making an abortive attempt to sit up. John stiffened and placed a firm hand on his sternum, glaring and making his feelings on that idea quite clear without speaking a word.

“John - your gun.”

John bit his lip and tried to look contrite as Greg rolled his eyes and held out his hand in mute demand. They both knew that Sherlock would have brought it for him, although John honestly hadn’t even thought of it until this moment. He glanced around and then nodded at the lab coat hanging by the door. “Most likely he left it there.”

Greg strode over and patted down the pockets, pulling out John’s Browning with a little satisfied sigh. He checked it over critically, chambering a round and flicking the safety off with practised ease. John felt his cheeks going a bit warm as Mycroft chuckled quietly, and Greg turned a slightly confused look on them before ghosting out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of Sherlock's plan is made clear, and John does not like it one bit...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by one of my lovely readers - nbboston! She generously donated a frankly staggering sum (although she called it meagre...) toward the purchase of a portable a/c unit to help keep my brain cool. (And my kitties, who will appreciate it very much, I'm sure.) I was and still am frankly overwhelmed by her thoughtfulness and generosity, and so very pleased that she has enjoyed my scribblings to such a degree. Thank you again, dearheart, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.
> 
> I hope my other lovelies enjoy it as well!
> 
> *mwah*

John cleared his throat even as he refused to look down at his patient, keeping alert for any further signs of danger. “So I like a man who knows how to handle his piece.”

“Oh, this I know very well, Doctor Watson.”

There was a low growl underlying the smooth voice, and this time John did glance down, smirking slightly at the ever-so-faint tinge of pink on Mycroft’s cheeks. “Let’s keep what little blood you still have in your body circulating, shall we? Can’t have it lingering in one spot for too long.” He reached out to cradle his face in one hand, running his thumb over his lips. “But you do realise that you’re in for it now, my lovely spy.”

“Oh?” Mycroft’s voice had once again gone a bit shaky, whether from fear or desire, it was hard to tell.

“Oh yes. Once this is all sorted and you’re back at home recovering from your injuries, I’m going to bend over right at the foot of your bed and let Greg take me where you will be able to see everything in great detail. You will not be allowed to touch, and every time I call out his name, you will be regretting keeping this from us for as long as you did because we could have had it from the beginning, you know.”

Mycroft’s cheeks were considerably rosier now, and his breathing had gone a bit erratic. His lips turned up slightly as he looked up at John with a merry twinkle in his cool grey eyes. “We’re both in for a bit of a treat, then. He fucks so beautifully, John.”

_“Nghk.”_ John bit his lip as Mycroft let out a snort of laughter and then went utterly white against the pain in his ribs. “Idiot.”

“In-indeed.”

“Mycroft! Oh no…” John glanced up in surprise just in time to step out of the way as Molly Hooper descended on the wounded man, reaching out to caress his cheek tenderly.

Greg shared an astonished look with him as Mycroft took hold of Molly’s hand, pressing his lips to her palm before bringing it back to his cheek and nuzzling into it gently. “Hello, poppet.” The elder Holmes suddenly blinked and released her, shaking his head disbelievingly. “Good heavens, John, what did you give me?”

John giggled quietly. “Nothing quite _that_ strong, Mr. Holmes.”

Molly straightened up and looked between John and Greg’s identical smirks with a rosy glow on her round cheeks before dropping her eyes. “It was a long time ago, and we realised that it wasn’t going to work out between us fairly quickly. So I broke it off before we could get in too deep. He didn’t have the time available for me that I knew I would need, and well, he was very honest about what he would need, and I wasn’t entirely comfortable with that and all…” As was so often the case with the petite medical examiner when she found herself a little flustered, her mouth just seemed to take on a life of its own and blithely kept motoring on. “Although there are times that I wish we had at least kept a physical thing going. He does this thing with his tongue that just…”

Both Greg and John cleared their throats and spoke almost as one, their eyes meeting over her head with a little flare of heat. “Yeah, we know.”

“Oh.” Molly’s body jerked abruptly and her ponytail practically smacked John in the face as her head turned between the two of them in shock. _“Oh!”_ Her eyes went wide as she glanced back down at Mycroft, who was trying not to look too smug and failing utterly. “You devil! Can I watch some time?” Her hands flew up to her mouth as she realised what she had just said, turning an even more vibrant shade of scarlet as she nearly dropped the bundle of black plastic that she had tucked up under one arm. “Oh God oh God what the hell was that oh good Lord I am _so_ sorry!”

Greg laughed as he reached out to steady her, shaking his head and shrugging at the same time. “We’ll talk it over and let you know, how’s that?”

She squeaked in pure mortification and simply held the bundle out to John before tucking her face in her hands and bending down over the table, resting her forehead on Mycroft’s arm as she shook her head in abject humiliation. “No no, you have to forget I said it, forget I’m here, forget I’m even alive oh my God…” Mycroft reached over and patted the top of her head somewhat awkwardly as she groaned aloud.

John frowned as he unfolded the plastic and then shook his head curtly. “No. No, this is an awful idea.” Mycroft tilted his head in a mute question, but then recognition dawned in his eyes as he glanced over the bundle. He shrugged in a bad imitation of nonchalance even as his face went just a bit whiter. John shook his head again. “No. Besides it being absolutely horrifying - I’m telling you that _I_ will have nightmares about this, never mind Mycroft - it’s far too obvious. If we are being watched, they will certainly follow, no matter the ruse.”

Greg cleared his throat as he watched Molly gently tracing over the boot mark on Mycroft’s ribs with one shaky finger. “Maybe that’s the point, John.”

“So he plays dead and we use him as bait? Fuck that.”

“John.” Mycroft reached out for his hand, trailing his fingers over his skin with the lightest of touches. “My love. I know that you’re trying to protect me, and I appreciate it more than words can say. But if this is Sherlock’s plan, then we must follow it to the letter. I trust him to resolve the situation, but that will only happen if we do what he needs us to.”

Molly looked at him with nothing but compassion in her eyes. “He knew you wouldn’t like it, John. He told me that if you were still angry once all of this was said and done, that you could take it out on him.”

“That’s not… I mean - I don’t need him to stand in as a punching bag, for fuck’s sake. I get what he’s trying to do, but this…” John sighed heavily as he held up the body bag and grimaced as his gut clenched uncomfortably. “I’ve seen too many of my mates wind up in one of these fucking things and once you get in, you don’t get out again. You just don’t.” He shook his head in blind denial, screwing up his eyes and balling up his fists. “Fuck it. Fuck this. Just fuck it all.”

“Gregory, please… You must - I cannot...”

Mycroft’s voice was clearly distressed, and John tried to open his eyes to reassure him somehow, but he just couldn’t. In the next moment, Greg’s warmth was pressed up next to him, his broad hand resting lightly on the nape of his neck. He squeezed rhythmically and pulled him in to press his lips to his temple. John shuddered and turned into him, letting the hateful piece of plastic fall to the ground as he clutched his fists into the back of his shirt.

“Fuck. I’m such a mess. What you must think of me…”

Greg chuckled quietly, even though John’s words had been barely recognisable. “Once you’re in a more controlled environment, you’ll be fine. We’re exposed here, and your military instincts are screaming at you and throwing you off. You’re just worried about being out in the open. I know why you don’t like this idea, and believe me, I don’t like it any more than you do.” He cupped the back of John’s head, petting and soothing him like one might a beloved pet. “It will be easier once we’re at Bart’s. The morgue is fairly well protected, you know. No windows and the like. We’ll be safer there, even if we are followed.”

John felt a feather-light touch on his shoulder and turned his head to see Molly smiling at him brightly, even though her eyes were somewhat wider than usual. She was clearly frightened at having been put in this situation, but she was holding up well. Much better than he was, that was for sure.

“Sherlock gave me a list of things to have ready for you, John. The morgue is already set up and the supplies are laid in. I know that you’re distracted, but I think it might be a good idea if we get moving. That bandage is starting to leak…”

“Shit!” John pushed away from Greg and immediately went for new gauze and gloves, ignoring the looks that he was getting.

Mycroft nodded and sighed as he was poked at gently. “Gregory, perhaps you could help Molly get the gurney?” Greg nodded at Mycroft’s tiny tilt of his chin, lightly grasping Molly’s upper arm and pulling her out the door. Mycroft took in a deep breath as John pulled the bloodied bandage away and cursed vociferously. “John, I’m alright.”

“No. No, you aren’t. You’re not alright, I’m not alright. Nothing about this situation is _alright_ , Mycroft.” He taped off the new bandage and swiftly stripped off his soiled gloves, clearly detesting the sight of his lover’s blood on his hands. “It would have ended differently if I had been with you.”

“Yes. It might be you on a table with an annoying scratch on your side. Or worse. I understand your desire to protect me, my love, but the fact remains that you cannot be at my side twenty-fours hours a day. And besides which, as the remains of my unfortunate umbrella prove, I am quite capable of defending myself.”

“Doesn’t matter. I could have stopped this from happening.” He wiped at his face perfunctorily and rubbed viciously at his eyes, dampening the flow of tears before they could start. “I’m useless to you.”

“John, my God. You are far from useless. I know that you’re the only one who can help me right now. I have willingly placed my body in your hands because of that knowledge.”

John suddenly looked at him, his brow creasing. “How did you know I was here?”

Mycroft’s smile was a trifle amused, but wary all the same. “I always know where you are, John. You and Gregory and Sherlock. I have my eye on all of the people I love.”

With anyone else, that may have been a frightening statement, but John somehow found it to be rather comforting. “My…”

Mycroft blinked up at him in silence, his smile turning into something soft and utterly sappy. John grinned back, suddenly realising that the painkiller he had administered was almost certainly doing its job. His lover generally only looked like that after coming down from an intense shag, when he was lying back all sweaty and loose-limbed with that same goofy expression of adoration on his face. Mycroft blinked rapidly and lifted his hand, caressing John’s cheek and drawing him down. John bent over him carefully, reaching up to run his thumb over one elegantly sculpted eyebrow before touching their lips together tenderly.

John fought to keep the kiss brief, clearly feeling Mycroft’s exhaustion through nothing more than the clamminess of his skin, in the hesitance of his breath. Mycroft sighed in exquisite pleasure as John’s fingers tightened ever-so-slightly in his hair, and he let his head fall back against the exam table as he parted his lips. As fanciful as the idea was, John imagined feeding him some of his own strength as he ran his tongue over his teeth and gently sucked. He smiled against his lover’s small moan as he felt his shaky touch travel to the back of his head, the elegant fingers clenching in his hair.

John reluctantly pulled away as he heard the squeaky wheels of the gurney making its way down the hall. Mycroft blinked up at him placidly as he ran the fingers of both hands over his face, as if memorising his features by touch alone. “I’ll take care of you, My. Make you as good as new.”

“I have absolute faith that you will, Doctor Watson.”

Greg and Molly came in to find John grimacing unpleasantly as he unrolled the body bag on the table next to Mycroft. He shifted his feet into it, his frown turning down even more as Mycroft struggled to raise himself high enough to get the plastic underneath his body. “Greg, get over here and help.” The older man hastened to his side, looking down at him in confusion, but clearly eager to do what was necessary to get their mutual lover to a safe place. “Mycroft, put your arm around his shoulders. Greg, get your hands underneath his torso and lift straight up. I’ll shift the bag underneath him, and then we’ll be able to pull up the sides.”

It was done in a jiffy, even if Greg did let out a little grunt of surprise at how heavy their patient seemed, and even if John had to bit his lip against Mycroft’s involuntary whimper of pain. They left the bag open and let Mycroft gather his breath for the move to the gurney as John swept through the small exam room, clearing up all of his debris as best as he could. He didn’t want anyone coming in the next day and panicking because it looked like a trauma ward.

Mycroft’s ruined shirt was tossed into the bag with him, his eyebrows raising slightly as he took in the shredded bundle of cloth. John let out a quiet bark of laughter on seeing the expression on his face. “Yeah, Greg was feeling a bit destructive after seeing that bruise on your ribs, love. Surprised he didn’t just go out and try to find the fuckers who did this to you on his own.”

Greg turned around with a little frown on his face. “I couldn’t do that. You needed me here, John.”

John tried to ignore Mycroft’s knowing smirk as his cheeks heated, letting his eyes graze over Greg’s body. “Yeah, I did.” He grinned as Greg’s cheeks went pink in turn.

Both of them turned abashed expressions on Molly as she tutted at them loudly. “Boys, do at least try to contain yourselves until we’ve got Mycroft sorted, if you don’t mind.”

Mycroft cleared his throat and pushed himself up on his elbows awkwardly. “But I don’t mind at all, poppet.” Molly tittered and then rushed to his side as he went utterly white again, gently pushing him back down and pulling the sides on the bag up before scuttling out of the way.

John shook his head and wrangled the gurney over, locking the wheels in place and taking hold of the handles at the foot of the bag. He nodded at Greg as he did the same at Mycroft’s head. “Alright, it’s fairly level, so it should be an easy transfer, just slide him over. Molly, if you’d steady the side, please.” She nodded determinedly and bent over the gurney, helping to keep the laden bag straight as they shifted him over.

Greg let out the breath that he hadn’t been aware of holding in as Mycroft settled onto the gurney with no outward signs of additional stress or pain. Mycroft quirked a small grin at them from the depths of his cocoon as he folded his hands over his sternum. John tucked the corpse of his umbrella down on his right side, gently taking his hand and bringing it down to close over the handle.

“If it gets to be too much, you just cut your way out. If you start to panic, you get clear of this foul thing. Don’t give any second thoughts to Sherlock’s plan or any of us, you understand?”

Mycroft blinked up at him placidly. “Yes, John. I understand. I’m going to retreat for a little while, though, so I believe that I will be just fine.”

John nodded curtly and watched with a growing sense of dread as Mycroft closed his eyes and went deathly still, withdrawing into his own mind and whatever wonders lay within. “Alright then, let’s get this done.” He quickly pulled up the zipper on the bag, but only made it up to his stomach before his hand started shaking too badly to continue.

Greg gently pulled him away and finished the job, courteously blocking John’s view as Mycroft’s white face disappeared into the inky blackness of the body bag. He stood still and silent as John took a moment to simply bury his face in between his shoulder blades, tremulously taking in breath after breath.

He laughed at himself quietly as he pulled away, once again running his hands over his face. “I’m going to become dependent on you if you’re not careful. Gonna start carrying a dirty shirt of yours around like a security blanket or something…”

Greg’s face was mildly amused, but his deep brown eyes were nothing but serious. “Anything you need, John. Anything at all.”

Molly’s voice once again broke in between them, sounding rather exasperated. “I need you both to get moving. C’mon!”

“Bugger.” John hastily pulled his jumper back over his head and snatched up his bundle of keys, curtly tilting his chin at Greg. “Go with Molly, get him settled. I’ll just lock up.” He did another quick sweep of the room as his companions carefully manoeuvred the wheeled contraption out the door and down the hall toward the exit. John stopped briefly in his own office, picking up the notes that he had been working on just a couple of hours prior.  

God, so much could change in such a short amount of time… John sighed as he turned off the light and ducked out the back door, locking it securely before climbing into the back of the van. He very deliberately did not look around as he closed the doors behind himself, although his instincts were screaming at him that they were indeed being watched. Instead he hunkered down next to Mycroft’s silent form, settling his hand over the black plastic just to feel the slight movement of his breath from underneath.

_‘Alive. You know that he’s alive despite this blasted bag and you will make him whole again and Sherlock will destroy whoever did this and everything will be fine, it will be good again. It’s fine. It’s all fine.’_

Greg looked back at him from the passenger seat, but he didn’t speak, choosing to remain silent at Molly’s side as she drove toward St. Bart’s Hospital and the security of her own domain. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sanctuary at St. Bart's...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revisiting whumf-Mycroft and his apparent harem of lovers as they strive to get him to a safe place. I wasn't necessarily expecting to work on this particular story this week, but this is the direction my muse steered me in, so here we are! 
> 
> *** I should mention that there is a brief recollection of Sherlock behaving less than kindly toward a nasty character in this bit - nothing too graphic, but perhaps a TW: implied torture should be put out here just in case...
> 
> Please read, please comment. 
> 
> I adore you all!

John quickly found himself slipping into a little fugue state of his own as he crouched by Mycroft’s shrouded form. This particular stance was a throwback to his days on active duty, when he and his team had been on standby for certain convoys to roll past, waiting for the signal to attack. It was an odd combination of outward high alert, every muscle in his body wound tightly in anticipation of action, and inward musing, his eyes distant and his mind floating even as he kept his ears open. He could hear the two in the front of the van murmuring to each other, but their conversation was easy to ignore in favour of feeling the steady rise and fall of Mycroft’s stomach underneath his fingers, encased in that hateful black plastic.

Nice and slow and steady, yes. Alive, despite the bag - it was just an illusion. This was all just a trick that they were helping to play against Sherlock’s shadowy opponents, a ruse to draw the rats from their holes, to aid in exterminating them. John allowed his mind to linger on that gruesome but ultimately satisfying image for a long time, picturing Sherlock in action, wishing he were at his flatmate’s side so he could mete out his own version of justice. John was no slouch when it came to hand-to-hand combat, of course. He knew just how to use his smaller stature to his advantage, counting on the fact that it often lured his opponent into a false sense of security. It was easy to underestimate a five foot seven man sporting a placid demeanour until that first punch, and then it would be time for a rapid reassessment. Not that it would matter anyhow - John was also quicker than he looked, and by the time his adversary had gathered his breath for a strike of his own, the battle would most likely already be over. John knew that his help would hardly be necessary, though - he had seen the way Sherlock fought, using his entire body as a weapon without hesitation. He was even deadlier when it came to defending those he cared for - especially his big brother.

He had become aware of the true depth of Sherlock’s regard toward Mycroft on one occasion when they had brought down a significant member of a well-known gang. The miscreant had snidely hinted that they could lock him up, but that wouldn’t prevent something nasty from happening to a certain member of the Holmes family. John’s mind had blanked out with sheer panic and blind rage, but before he had even taken a step, the man’s arm had been subjected to a carefully calculated blow with the heel of Sherlock’s shoe, the bone broken rather neatly. He had trod on the wound almost casually, his eyes dangerously cold and distant as the ends ground together quite audibly.

“You may wish to reconsider that extremely ill-advised threat, Mr. Herricot. Consider the agony that I am putting you through right now, and consider the fact that my brother was the one to teach me just how to inflict the proper kind of pain.” John twitched faintly as he recalled how Sherlock had crouched down and trailed his fingertips down the villain’s arm, choosing a particular spot to press his finger down hard, watching impassively as the man had simply screamed himself raw, his voice petering out into harsh, rasping sobs. “Consider also that he taught me all I know, and yet, there are secrets that he kept for himself. Just...consider.” With a tight clench of his leather-clad hands and a vicious twist of his arm, Sherlock had made the man blanch pure white and then he had passed clean out. They’d had to wait for Greg’s team for well over an hour, and their captive didn’t move once during that interminable interval of time.

John recalled that he’d had one of his less than pleasant dreams that night, imagining that the shadowy sniper that had shattered his shoulder had come down from his hiding place to finish the job. He had seen his imminent death standing over him as he bled out into the dry dust of the desert, but then there had been a black blur of a ridiculously posh coat and those fine, strong fingers wrapped around a dusky throat, and then - relief. John had not been visited by those dreams again that night, and indeed, they had greatly decreased in frequency ever since. In truth, he had been a little disturbed by the viciousness and seemingly disconnected manner in which Sherlock had dealt with the gang member, but his propensity toward defensive violence was oddly comforting at the same time. Simply knowing that he was there in the flat with him lent him a sense of some sort of protection, a tenuous security blanket that he pulled close every time he laid his head down.

John bit his lip as he considered the possibility that the attack tonight had been perpetrated by that same gang. But no, he thought not. They had been little more than thugs and drugs-runners, really. To actually get this close to Mycroft spoke of a certain sophistication that none of them could possibly dream of - there was no way that they would have been able to infiltrate the British Government to such a degree. This was no doubt something political, and far beyond his comprehension, but the same obviously couldn’t be said of Sherlock. No, he’d suss it out right enough, and he would make damn sure that this was the end of it.

“John. _Psst._ Hey, John!”

John shook himself out of his self-induced trance and glanced over his shoulder as Greg hissed at him again. “Present.” He smirked as the older man rolled his eyes slightly and jerked his chin toward the windshield. Bart’s somewhat forbidding architecture loomed up out of the gloom, and John suddenly felt himself breathing a little easier. Sanctuary.

Molly eased the van around the corner and headed for the back entrance, a loading dock of sorts. John scooted forward on his knees as she swung around and backed up, eyeing the somewhat cavernous space a little suspiciously. Greg clearly disliked it as much as he did, as his sharp gaze was lingering on the other two vehicles parked nearby, a van similar to the one they were occupying and an apparently empty ambulance. Molly turned the key in the ignition and they all listened to the engine ticking away its heat for a moment before John cleared his throat.

“Greg…”

“Yup.” The DI slipped John’s Browning from his belt and paused when Molly gasped audibly from beside him. John swiftly realised that he had most likely kept it out of her sight to keep her from succumbing to her naturally nervous state. “Sorry, Molls.” He glanced over his shoulder and nodded curtly at John, his face serious. “Won’t be but a tick.” Greg slipped from the van and shut the door behind him with a faint click, quickly but efficiently sweeping the space for hidden dangers.

John knew that he was probably being a bit paranoid at this stage of the proceedings, but his instincts were still screaming at him that there was danger abroad. Greg had been right about attributing his uneasy state of mind to the lack of security at the clinic, though. As soon as they were all in a more controlled location and Mycroft was out of that damned shroud, he would be able to put his lover back together and then everything would be fine. Just fine, dammit. He bit his lip as he watched Greg moving with his gun in his hand, held high and ready for any sign of danger. His back was straight, but his shoulders loose, moving with an easy and unconscious grace. And when he crouched briefly to check under the vehicles, Lord Almighty, the way his trousers tightened over his arse…

Molly cast him a worried look as he chuckled quietly, making him bite his lip in mortification. But then she nodded her understanding as Greg swiftly bent down again, her own cheeks pinking slightly. They both watched as he jogged to the entrance of the garage space and glanced out in both directions, hustling back and opening the passenger side door.

“Let’s get him inside. Everything’s clear, but it still don’t feel right.” He shared a significant look with John. “I’ll feel better once we’re all locked up behind these grand old stone walls. Like a bloody fortress.”

John heaved out a sigh. “Just what we need. Bart’s won’t let us down.” Greg nodded and disappeared toward the back of the van as Molly slipped from the driver’s seat and John shuffled to the doors. He flinched as they opened, and swiftly if silently chided himself for his jumpiness.

Molly smiled at him wanly as they manoeuvred the gurney out onto the platform together, Greg standing waiting at the door with gun in hand. He tucked it into the small of his back as Molly opened the door with her keycard, taking over steering duties as she led them through a warren of corridors. Her keycard granted them access to a freight elevator, and they all stood in silence as it moved downward. John started to reach for the zipper on the bag, but Molly swiftly grabbed at his hand, her eyes raising warningly to the ceiling. John sighed as he spotted the small black bubble that indicated they were being watched.

It probably didn’t mean anything, but Mycroft had said that he had been compromised, and who knew how far something like that could go in his organisation? So he resolved himself to wait until they were just a bit farther underground, once Molly gave him the okay. This was her territory, after all, and she would know when it was safe. In the next moment the elevator doors opened and Greg and John got the gurney moving again, Molly practically running ahead of them to throw open the doors to the morgue. Thankfully there was more than one autopsy room, as they passed by one that was obviously occupied.

Molly blushed as she threw a glance over her shoulder at John’s inquisitive grunt. “The dearly departed Mr. Johnson… I was in a bit of a rush and sort of left him hanging about. Poor fellow. I haven’t cut into his heart yet, but I’m fairly certain that’s what did him in. It was nearly 600 grams! Can you imagine? And ooh, the state of his arteries. Shameful, that’s what it is. According to his records, he’d been having arrhythmia and chest pains for quite a while, but he absolutely refused to change any of his nasty habits. His wife insisted on an autopsy even though it was clearly a cardiac event. In denial, perhaps, even after feeding him a full fry-up just about every morning. But then again, maybe she had the right idea. Left her fairly well off from what I hear…”

Greg and John glanced at each other, their lips twitching to break out into laughter as Molly blithely chattered on about life insurance policies and a holiday cottage out in the country. Greg cleared his throat with a little twinkle in his eye as they finally arrived at their apparent destination. “Are you saying that perhaps I should have a little chat with the freshly widowed Mrs. Johnson, Molls? See if I can maybe get her to confess to homicide by the wilful application of fattening foods?” He pondered briefly as John snorted and Molly’s blush brightened. “I suppose greasy meals could be considered a poison of sorts, even if a long-acting one.” Greg tilted his head. “How long had they been married?”

“Thirty-five years last October.”

“An extremely long-acting poison, then. Yeesh. Mrs. Johnson’s quite the schemer.”

John snorted again and paused to look around the somewhat spacious room. He tilted his chin at another conspicuous black bubble up in the corner of the ceiling, but Molly shook her head. “Sherlock disabled that one ages ago.” Her lips turned up into a smirk. “He does so hate to be eavesdropped on when he’s found himself a fresh corpse to play with.” Greg shuddered delicately as John shared a knowing and somewhat wicked look with the petite medical examiner.

John nodded curtly and looked around some more, noting with extreme satisfaction that she truly had laid in a number of the supplies that he would need. Scrubs and gloves and gauze, a tray loaded with sterilised instruments in their envelopes, vials of antibiotics and painkillers, and even an IV tree with a saline pouch already hanging from it, ready to go. He turned raised eyebrows on her and smiled gratefully as she twisted her hair up into a ponytail before squaring her shoulders. “I’ve a couple of bags of universal in the fridge too. Right. What do you need?”

“First, we get him out of this nightmare. Molly, if you would lay a sheet out on the table, please.” He winced internally as she hopped to, wishing that they didn’t have to lay Mycroft out on a autopsy table to work on him, but it would be a far more stable platform than the gurney. “Greg, get over here and help.” He took in a deep breath and swiftly unzipped the bag, immediately drawing down the sides next to that lovely face. Mycroft’s features were still cold and immobile, and John felt an absolute jolt in his chest looking down on him. _'I_ _llusion, just illusion he’s fine it’s fine everything’s fine oh God…'_

Greg was obviously feeling the same distress he was, as he clearly heard the breath exit his lungs in a sharp whoosh. “Like Sleeping Beauty, eh?” John blinked rapidly as he looked at him over Mycroft’s still form in astonishment. Greg hastily wiped at his eyes as he turned a shaky grin on him. “What say we wake our princess just like in the fairy stories?”

“Neither of us are his true love, Greg.”

Greg tilted his head as his grin returned in full force. “Maybe not individually, but I betcha that together, we just might be.”

John blinked again before shaking his head in disbelief. “Christ on a cracker, the charm on you. Smarmy little bastard.” He felt his frown melting away into a dopey smile, but he couldn’t seem to contain it, despite their somewhat desperate circumstances. “Our Prince Charming. Right you are.” Greg winked and then they both leant forward to kiss either pale cheek, their sighs of relief mixing together as Mycroft’s skin twitched under their lips.

He opened drowsy if clear grey eyes and blinked up at them silently before his lips turned up fondly. “Hello, my loves.”

Greg broke out into an exuberant grin and briefly nuzzled into Mycroft’s temple as John laid a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Told ya, John.”

John shook his head. “Yes, yes. That smile of yours should be classified as a weapon, you know. Speaking of, why don’t you secure that thing in a drawer or somewhere? I might need you, and I don’t want you blowing one of those delightful arse-cheeks into smithereens before I’ve had a chance to examine it up close and personal.” He blithely ignored Greg’s reddened cheeks and Mycroft’s soft snort as he reached into the bag and carefully extracted the broken blade. “This too. Just tuck them both away where they won’t be in the way.”

Mycroft winked at him as he manoeuvred the gurney a little closer to the table, locking the wheels in place as Greg did as he was told. John gave Greg a little nod as he returned, grasping hold of the handles at Mycroft's feet, and together they slid the bag over in one smooth motion. “Alright, just like before.” Molly swiftly slid the black plastic out from underneath Mycroft as the two men lifted his body, bundling it up on top of the gurney and moving the whole lot out of the way. Greg kissed the top of Mycroft’s head as he let out an indiscriminate grunt of pain, and John slipped around to his side. “Sorry, love, but the rest of your kit’s got to come off now.”

Mycroft nodded resignedly as John’s hands went to his belt buckle, as Greg slipped his shoes and socks off. With another grunt, he lifted his hips as they both stripped him down efficiently. John’s teeth clenched as he took note of several other bruises, swiftly performing a cursory examination around each one. Again, nothing seemed broken, although he really didn’t like the swelling present on the lower left tibia - could be a fracture.

Molly leant over as John slid his palm over the discolouration, biting her lip in thought. “We’ve a portable x-ray…”

“Yeah.” John smiled at her gratefully. “After we’ve patched him up. I’m a little concerned about his ribs too.” He looked her over critically as she draped another sheet over Mycroft’s exposed bits, her cheeks pink, but her eyes bright and focused. “Can you set an IV?”

Molly bit her lip again, but nodded firmly. “Yes, I’m sure I can. Med 101 was a few years back, but I remember how.”

“Good. Scrub in and do it, please. I’d like to start with some plasma first, his colour’s too peaky for my taste. We’ll worry about fluids and electrolytes a bit later.” She nodded again and marched off toward the sink, determinedly stripping off both her gaudily patterned jumper and the shirt underneath without hesitation.

Greg tilted his head as she slipped a scrub top on over her bra and got to work washing her hands and arms thoroughly. “And me? Are you going to need my assistance, Doctor Watson?”

John chuckled quietly as he reached for the nearby sphygmomanometer, anxious to get a reading on his patient’s blood pressure. “Yeah, go on. Even if you don’t really _assist_ , per se, I’d like you as sterile as possible, since I know you’ll be hell to budge from this room while I’m working. Molly’ll show you how.”

Greg gave Mycroft’s hand a quick squeeze and went to join Molly at the sink, drawing his own shirt over his head as he went. John stared briefly at the broad expanse of his tanned back before blinking rapidly and looking down at the dial of the meter as he listened to the flow of blood in Mycroft’s veins. He steadfastly ignored his little giggle, frowning slightly as he pulled the stethoscope from his ears and draped it over his neck, pulling the cuff loose with a loud rasp. “108 over 67. Are you dizzy at all? Feel like you might pass out?”

“Hm.” Mycroft tilted his head from side to side as Molly rejoined them, pulling the tray of supplies closer, rooting out an IV kit without comment. “Perhaps a little, but nothing too alarming, considering that I’ve been flat on my back for some time.” He grinned a little goofily as Molly swabbed the crook of his elbow with one antiseptic wipe and then another, slipping the tourniquet over his bicep and tying it tight. Both Molly and John hummed with satisfaction as a prominent vein popped up almost immediately. Their patient’s blood pressure might be a little low, but at least they would be able to use the standard site rather than going through his hands or feet.

Mycroft winced slightly as Molly slid the needle in, immediately reaching up with one hand to tug the tourniquet loose before sliding the catheter into place. John watched critically as she taped everything down, leaving the small bit of tubing hanging down in preparation to attach the IV. “Excellent. Well done, Molly. Now. This is how this is going to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to add that while I do have a certain level of second-hand knowledge in regards to the ephemera surrounding the medical field (I have a chronic illness, and my mother is living with Stage IV cancer, which means lots of tests and whatnot), I am by no means an expert. So if there is a medical professional or two reading this, please do take any misinformation with a grain of salt. No disrespect is intended, and if anyone feels that corrections are necessary, please do let me know.


End file.
